If Cupid's Got a Gun Then He's Shootin'
by Necchan
Summary: 5th in the Love Until We Bleed Saga. JasonxTim. It wasn't exactly "I love you" or even "I care for you", except that it was.
1. Chapter 1

******POSSIBLE SPOILER FOR RED ROBIN***********

When I first wrote and uploaded this on my blog (about a month before I posted this here on FFnet), I - we, the internet as a whole still didn't know what was going to happen to Tim in the last couple of issues of Red Robin. Boy, does it feel awkward now, to have my fic tell of just about the same thing that Red Robin #24 tells. . Now I wish Jason could swing in the 25th issue of Red Robin and do the same thing he does in this chapter of the fic: save the day. ):

******END OF POSSIBLE SPOILER FOR RED ROBIN***********

**Title:** If Cupid's Got a Gun... (1/2)

**Fandom:** DCU- Batman.

**Rating:** Soft R for this part. Heavy R over all.

**Genre: **...uh. Humorous tone, flirty banter, mentions of violence, drugs and disturbing crimes.

**Wordcount: **2300 circa.

**Characters/Pairings: **Tim Drake/Jason Todd/Tim Drake.

**Warning: Overall? _LOTS._ **Attempted molestation of a teenage hero-in-costume. Swearing words. Jay being a good guy, with an entirely wrong set of morals. Explosions, gun fights, violence, blood.

**Summary: **It wasn't exactly "I love you" or even "I care for you", except that it _was_.

**Notes: **Fith story in the "(love) Until We Bleed" saga. In this 'verse Tim is on the prowl for his very own Jaybird, but Jay's got a very bad cause of the denial.

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he pain was his first clue that something was very, very wrong.

A pulsing ache was spreading through him, thick waves that needled in the back of his head, flashed hot and white against his lowered eyelids, sour-coating the roof of his mouth.

The second clue were the ropes, coiled tight around his chest and pinning his arms behind his back.

At this point in life, Timothy Drake had been Robin long enough to be familiar with both the pain _and_ waking up in restraints. The familiarity did little to lessen the humiliation or discomfort of hostage-situations, but at least it quenched the raising panic, allowing him to keep his cool.

Carefully, Robin tested his bonds, wondering what had gotten him into the mess, _this time. _Oddly enough, his mental struggles failed to pull up that particular memory from his brain; but the physical struggles attracted the entirely wrong kind of attention.

Suddenly, he was yanked by the hair, slammed face-down into the floor, and pinned there by a reeking, crushing weight on his back. His bottom lip split upon impact, filling his mouth with blood and his head with stars. Robin's eyes watered with the intense pain, but he didn't make a sound.

The weight on his back shifted. Something hard and dull (a kneecap, Robin suspected) dug in the middle of his spine, pinning him more securely to the floor. The hand in his hair yanked him back, forcing his body into a painful, backward curve that almost had him whimpering.

"Look't this, th' pretty bird 's _awake," _someone hissed against his ear, voice and breath thick with cheap booze.

There was an explosion of drunken laughter from somewhere behind him, the scraping of chairs across an uneven floor, cursing and some noise that might have been translated with "leave th'boy 'lone, Rick." and "Ain't worth the wrath of the Bat, man."

The awkward arch of his throat made it difficult to breathe. Robin's vision was already turning black around the edges, when he released abruptly. He fell flat on his face again, gasping for breath and feeling like he had swallowed a box of pins. Figuring a way out of his bonds was beyond his ken at the moment, but that didn't stop him from trying.

His endeavour earned him a crude and boisterous laugh from the man pinning him down – _Rick? _– who then started to fumble with something that clinched like metal, especially when it was dropped on the floor with a grunt. The sound was followed by more laughter, and then the pressure on Robin's back increased, sending another jolt of pain spiralling down his body. He grimaced, but "Rick"'s hands were against his face now, clamping shut both nose and mouth, cutting off his air; so the sound came out strangled and pitiful, prompting another low guffawk from Rick.

_Right now, _Robin thought as his eyes began to swam, darkness clawing at his consciousness, _would be a good time for a bit of a sweeping-in-and-saving-the-boy-hostage's-ass routine_.

CRASH.

As if on cue, a window shattered. Glass rained down in a symphony of noise. A chorus of screams, hollering and curses rose from all around him. Booted feet clambered about, crashes, outcries, the sound of gunshots, fast, messy, each resounding _bang! bang!_ of the bullets echoed by a dozen more, the clanging of metal, more shouts, of pain rather than either fear or surprise now.

_Never_-_ever going to make fun of your entrance-fetish again, Di..._

"You lugs having a party? Ha, guess _my_ invite got lost, mh?"

_...Jason?_

Robin realized the weight on his back was gone only when he tried to get up and got to his knees unhindered. He blinked the bright spots away from his eyes, and tried to focus on his surroundings.

A quick look around revealed a greasy little office: low ceiling, peeling wallpaint; broken furniture layered with grime, papers scattered on the floor, trampled on and caked with dark stains. A naked light-bulb hung limply from the middle of the ceiling, swaying to and fro. The table directly beneath looked crooked, and there was ash, cigarettes and poker cards strewn all over a tattered green cloth.

His Bat-training ensured that Robin noted and archived all those details at a glance, even if the room _was_ spinning oddly, each shape moving and shifting fantastically before his eyes. As he wobbled to his feet, the door was kicked open, bouncing off the wall with a loud clang that seemed to spear his brain right in two.

He winced, blinking the ache away, reeling away from the noise even as he tried to approach the figure filling the doorway. He groaned.

"J..."

"Get down!"

Robin heard the volley of bullets, and then Jason – correction,_ Red Hood – _ was barrelling into him, catching him by the waist and pulling him behind the relative cover offered by the upturned poker-table.

Pinning Robin to his chest with one arm, Red Hood used the other to fish a remote from his jacket. A resounding "oh" echoed within Robin's mind, before the red button (of course it had to be a _red_ button) was pressed, and an explosion went off on the other side of the door.

In the silence that followed, Robin could hear nothing but the buzzing in his ears, and Red Hood's breath hissing through his helmet. Red Hood... Jason... felt warm and solid against Robin, a blanket of muscle that smelled familiar and _safe._ His chest heaved against Robin's own which each laboured breath, and Robin thought he could feel Jason's heart beating even through the layers of cloth and Kevlar, beat wildly and soundly, against his own.

Then Red Hood shifted, pushing the table off them, and the world seemed to burst suddenly into life. Light and sound exploded around Robin, making him groan and curl onto himself, deeper into Red Hood's chest. Knuckles rapped gently against his temple, then slid feather-like down the side of his face.

"We really have to stop meeting like this, Baby B," Red Hood said, rumbling and amused.

That prompted Robin to take in their position - _really_ take it in. Red Hood pressing him down, Robin's legs wound tight around his hips, their bodies flush, heaving and buzzing with adrenaline. He wheezed out something that barely resembled a laugh.

"..rrre-_ah_-lly.. _not."_

Robin's voice was garbled and thick, something that the Red Hood hadn't been expecting. Starting, he quickly pushed the younger boy away from him and started to cut through the ropes binding him.

"You look like shit, Baby B," he said conversationally.

Robin grinned cheekily.

Why, Jason, _I love you too_.

Red Hood went still for a second, then grabbed Robin's chin and pushed his face up abruptly, turning it this way and that. He began to say something, something about pupils and blood and needles and _having it right in his pants_, which made Robin grin a saucy little grin and mutter something only half-coherent he never bothered to remember after the whole ordeal was over.

Red Hood went still again, flipped Robin the finger and then proceeded to produce a smart-looking little device from his pocket (oh, so _that's_ what he'd meant! Robin had thought that... _nevermind_).

"...okay?"

"Mh-mh," Robin was so out of it, he wasn't even sure what he was agreeing to. But being petted like a big cat was _nice,_ especially when it was Jason doing it, and Robin didn't want it to stop, so agreeing seemed like the right choice to make. "_Yeah_."

The needle in the crook of his elbow stung a bit, but then Red Hood was petting him again, on the face and the top of his head, so everything was right in the world.

"...en minutes top, Baby B. This stuff comes straight from Daddy Dearest's stash, after all."

Oh? Nice. Did that mean Jason was on speaking terms with Bruce again? Or had he just stolen the vial of whatever-it-was from behind Batman's back? Stealing was bad, but Robin was currently too busy analysing how good Jason's hands felt on him, to come up with a proper tongue-lashing. Just how many millions would he made, if he bottled the feeling and made it available on market?

"You wanna _bottle_ the…? Christ, baby, you're high as a kite."

Red Hood sounded amused, and that was _nice_, too, and, uh... did "high" meant that Robin had been given something? He didn't remember needles or gases or liquids of any sort, but it wasn't like he remembered anything other than his name and his utter devotion to Jason's leather gloves, so it didn't feel comfortable to make any assumption as of yet

Red Hood snorted.

"A leather kink, hm? I'm _so_ going to blackmail you with that." He paused, fingers skimming quick but soft across Robin's cheek, his mouth. "Sure you were given something, Baby B. One hell of a concussion, for starters. And you must've breathed in some shit or the other, too. You won't believe the kinda lab they'd been running in the back."

Oh, that explained things.

"You can say that again."

"That… explains things?"

Robin croaked out, and it was really nice when Red Hood was amused, because then he'd chuckle, and being pressed against Red Hood's chest meant that Robin could not _just_ hear the sound, but feel the vibration of it, could roll with it and soak it in and, _yup_, high as a kite indeed.

Red Hood petted him again, big palms sliding down Robin's arms and sides, probing gently for injury. The brisk but careful touch skidded down Robin's neck and across his chest, then one of those big hands cupped his thigh and… _froze_.

Just froze.

Abruptly, every muscle in Red Hood's body was pulled taut, so that Robin had the sudden, claustrophobic sensation of being held by bands of steel instead than laying against warm, yielding flesh. The sound that clawed out of Red Hood's throat right then was nothing Robin had ever heard before, low and keening and reminiscent of a wounded beast.

That, along with whatever medical he'd been injected, cleared Robin's head enough to realize that the hand on his leg wasn't touching Nomex-Kevlar weave, but _naked skin._

The dots began to connect in his mind – drugged, pushed to the floor, his suit tugged low, _ripped_ at the back – and Robin realized that Jason could've verily saved him from something far worse that the usual boy-hostage scenario.

"...bloody mother-fuckers,_ I'm gonna kill them all_."

Robin started. It was no idle threat, and he _knew_ it. It downright _tore_ _him up_ that Jason could be – _would_ be? Was _going_ to be? – so vicious and vengeful and bat-shit crazy. But it was for _Tim, _all that rage;all that worry, that possessiveness and protectiveness and _fear,_ the laboured breathing, the wild thumping of his heart, the strain and the quiver in his muscles, all of it, it was for Tim, for _Tim,_ and it wasn't exactly "I love you" or even "I care for you", except that it _was, _and it made Tim's starved heart flutter in ways that were entirely not appropriate.

"Don't... _Red... _not happen_... don't deserve..."_

His anger was boiling so hot. Jason wouldn't, _couldn't_ listen. He was like a man possessed. Feral. His hands tightened around Robin's arms, fingers digging deep into the tender flesh, pulling a whimper from Robin's throat. His pulse beat faster with excitement and fear as Red Hood loomed over him, filling the entirety of his vision.

"Don't deserve _what_? Punishment? They do. _No one _is allowed to pull this sort of shit on my turf," he growled. "No one is allowed touch _a_ Robin on my turf." When he shook Robin, half-yanking him into his chest, he was so harsh that Robin's teeth rattled together. "And no fuckin' one can fuckin' touch _you _andexpect me not to rip their guts out!"

And then Red Hood was pushing Robin away, angrily and suddenly, and no amount of tugging and pulling and begging and _clawing_ could stop him as he leapt to his feet, guns already out and loaded.

He lunged past the doorway like a beast of prey, and Robin was left on the dirty floor, alone and aching somewhere deeper than his flesh and deeper than his bones, hoping against hope he would regain complete control of his body _before_ the carnage took place.

* * *

><p><strong>-TBC<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** (If Cupid's Got a Gun...)... Then He's Shootin' (2/2)

**Fandom:** DCU- Batman.

**Rating:** Heavy R.

**Genre: **...uh. REALLY emo, but remember Tim's under the influence of drugs. Romance and violence in equal parts. Angst, anger and issues with self-worth, forgiveness and the like.

**Wordcount: **3060.

**Characters/Pairings: **Tim Drake/Jason Todd/Tim Drake.

**Warning: Overall? _LOTS._ **Attempted molestation of a teenage hero-in-costume. Swearing words. Jay being a good guy, with an entirely wrong set of morals. Explosions, gun fights, violence, drugs, death, blood.

**Summary: **It wasn't exactly "I love you" or even "I care for you", except that it _was_.

**Notes: **Takes place in the "(love) Until We Bleed" 'verse. This implies that Tim's on the prowl for his very own Jaybird, but Jay's got a very bad cause of the denial.

* * *

><p><strong>E<strong>ventually, Robin's senses cleared enough that he could retrieve his belt, stand on his own two feet, and feel his way out from behind the upturned table. With deliberate steps, Robin inched across the room, wobbling briefly whenever the sound of gunshots came to him from below. The door was hot, smoke-licked and grimy. It gave way easily under the smallest pressure, groaning on its hinges like an injured child.

Peering dazedly around, Robin finally realized he was inside an old warehouse, probably one of the many that littered the harbour district. The office were he'd been held hostage was separated from the storing area below by a rusty stairway. Dark columns of smoke and a dull, muted light moved restlessly beyond the wobbly railing. Casting a glance down, Robin saw a multitude of little fires scattered all over the floor and, in their flickering light, upturned crates, spilled equipment, glass-splinters and mean-looking metal tools.

And bodies.

A dozens or so, if Robin could trust his hazy eyes. And all of them twitching at least faintly, unless that was a trick of the light. Possible survivors, if they were administered the proper treatment. There was a button on his belt that would summon medical help to his location, and it was something almost instinctive that guided Robin's hand to it and pressed it down. All the better, because Robin was too busy looking for Red Hood amongst the destruction, to do anything that required any level of conscious thought.

Wide, startled eyes swept across the warehouse once, twice and – _there. _Robin held onto the railing, used it to drag himself forward, pushed and pulled until he could see the back wall.

There, the uninjured were cowering, drenched in sweat and other fluids, dirt speckled across their faces. Red Hood reared before them from atop a crate like a demonic preacher. The light of the flames licked at his mask from behind, cast sharp shadows across his featureless face, where the lenses stood out in sharp contrast, flaring white and hot like stars.

"It wasn't an hard question," he was saying, and the voice out of the helmet was not Jason's, Robin could swear it, it _wasn't_, because it was cold and sharp and _unsettling, _a dead voice, with no emotion nor inflection to it, and sounded nothing like the bemused rumble that had murmured his name so tenderly a few minutes before.

As Robin gaped, heart in his throat, Red Hood aimed a shot at the wall, the bullet ricocheting against a pipe in a rain of sparkles. The thugs cowered, some of them growling, the rest crying, shifting restlessly like worms on a hook.

There was a man in an expensive suit cowering at Red Hood's feet (the ringleader?) that Robin didn't notice until he was hauled up by the scruff of his collar. The gun's smoking barrel was pressed into the side of his neck. The man made a strained, little _sob_, like a scolded child, and flinched away from the pain. Red Hood yanked him back by the shirt like it was a leash, and pressed the barrel deeper into the sizzling flesh.

"But I'll ask again, just in case you're _that_ dense. Which one of you _losers_ put his greasy hands on my little bird?"

The man in the suit began to bawl, a litany of words mingling one into the other, with the occasional "I don't know" standing out sharply every now and then. Wordlessly, Red Hood raised his gun from the man's neck to his temple, and in a sudden burst of lucidity, the suit turned towards his men and screamed: "Hand him over! Whoever he is! Hand him over, now! Now! Nownownownow!"

Whoever he was, the suit had power enough, or money enough, that the cowering crowd parted almost immediately at his order. Many a pair of hands worked together to toss a single man out of their midst, before the thugs closed ranks again, huddling together like scared animals.

The man landed on his knees, expelling epithets in a voice that was familiar enough to make Robin flinch even at a distance. The ringleader was tossed away like a rag doll, and Red Hood sprang from the crane, landing before his new target in a perfect crouch. He waved his gun in the man's face in an airy fashion.

"That wasn't so hard, now was it?"

The man Robin had recognized as "Rick" peered up into the barrel of Red Hood's gun, grinning like a fool. He gurgled low in his throat, then aimed a clog of spittle at Red Hood's boots.

"You have _no idea _how hard I was before you pooped the party, you red freak."

The gun connected with Rick's temple, made him curl into a ball that Red Hood was only too pleased to kick.

"Wrong answer."

And kick and kick and _kick_ across the floor.

Robin needed to get down there something like five minutes ago_._ He was in no state to use his grapple line, but that's exactly what he did. He almost stumbled when he landed, still reeling from the concussion and what he _hoped_ was not the residue of a rape drug.

"J..." he swallowed the name with a bit of an effort. "_...RED HOOD!_"

Red Hood didn't spare him a glance, but Robin's voice seemed to reach him,

(_Mine_, Jason had called him. _My bird_)

spearing through the haze of rage. His body locked up, freezing where it stood, a few feet from Rick, arm stretched taut and gun aimed at the man's head. When it came, his voice was low and questioning and it had lost that horrible edge, it was Jason's voice all over again, and,

(He's called _me_ his bird)

Robin swallowed, nodding, when that voice called _his_ name.

"Robin?"

(My little bird)

"I'm here."

Had Batman been there, he would've put himself in the line of fire, shielding the cowering man with his bulkier body as he tried to talk some sense into Red Hood.

Robin? Robin was nowhere near as bulky for that tactic to work even in his best of days. Besides, shielding Rick would've put too much distance between him and Jason, and any more distance between them was exactly _the last thing they needed_.

Instead, he positioned himself so close to Red Hood, that they could go for a hug, if Jason bothered to lower his gun. Close enough for a kiss, though Robin tried to steer his thoughts clear from that particular road.

He held his hands out, palms up in a placating gesture.

"Lower the gun."

"No."

"Be reasonable."

"You've got the wrong man for that, baby."

"Ple-"

"Don't you _dare_ begging for his life. _Don't."_

Frustration was not something Robin should've let slip in his tone, but he _was_ drugged and concussed and reeling from an emotional high. He snapped: "This is pointless!" and the sound of his own voice made him start to attention, made him reel back and draw an harsh breath in.

A ripple seemed to run down Red Hood's back, and "so you're telling me that avenging you-" hissing, Red Hood was _hissing,_ now, "-avenging _a Robin_ is pointless?" Voice hollow, cold, colder than ice, colder than death, "Oh, I know that. I know that Batman's little bird-boy can be beaten, can be blown apart with a bomb. He can have his throat slit by his own _father_ and he can be replaced, but he can't be avenged. I know _all_ about it."

Robin reeled back as if struck.

"Red..."

"But guess what? I don't friggin' _care_ about the no-avenging Robins rule. This piece of shit drugged and almost _raped _ really think..._" _he cocked his gun. The little click of the barrel snapping into place sounded louder than a hail of gunfire. "...I won't do a fuck about it?"

Robin moved closer, and closer still. Close enough that his shoulder all but brushed the crook of Jason's elbow, and his nose was inches from the lapels of Jason's jacket. Close enough that he could say, "Jason," and be heard by no one but the man standing before him.

"Jay," he said again, even softer, as if he were dealing with a wild animal, dangerous and likely to bolt. "It's all right. He didn't do anything."

"He was about to."

"You didn't let him, Jay." Saying his name, it seemed right. So he said it again, "Jay," and softer still: "Jason, _please."_

Red Hood didn't waver. He contemplated Robin's words for a moment, then said:

"He didn't avenge _me. I was his Robin, and he didn't avenge me. _Now it's my turn, and I won't make the same mistake. Maybe _I_ was replaceable, I don't fucking know. But you... you're _not. _I _have_ to do this._"_

Robin shook his head.

"Batman doesn't think of me any differently than-"

"You're not replaceable to _me," _Jason explained, low and rough and sending a flood of emotion spiking through Robin's chest. He closed his eyes. Licked his lips. His ears buzzed, his heart hammered, and not any of it was imputable to the drugs.

"I... I know of it feels, Jay. Standing by as someone you love is hurt. The desire to avenge them, whatever the cost." His voice was breezy and slurred around the edges, but his words? They were all manners of truth. Which made it all the more amazing when neither one flinched at the mention of love. "But... you don't have to do anything. I am here. _Here._ I'm safe. I'm whole. I'm with you, and you don't _have_ to do anything."

"He'll try again. If I don't stop them, they _always_ try again."

Robin allowed himself a smile.

"The way you scared him? I don't think so."

"I'm not the sort to rough the criminals up and let them go, Baby B."

Robin's voice, his whole posture, hardened at that.

"And I'm not the sort to stand by and do nothing as they're killed."

For a long moment, Jason faced him in silence. And not for the first time, Tim wished the helmet away, wished he could _see_ Jason face, instead than trying to picture it, the exact slant of his eyes, the curve of his mouth. Was he smiling? Was he frowning? Was he looking at him the same way he'd done in the cemetery the first time they met? Looking at him like he was something filthy that it hurt to touch? Or was it the way he'd looked at him in that café, in that local? Like he was amusing and all sorts of precious and...

"And that's why people like you can never mix with the likes of _me."_

_**BANG**_

When he fired, Jason's body didn't even _twitch_ with the recoil.

Tim heard a wet, gurgling sound behind him, a gasp of pain, and then nothing. His mind reeled for a moment, and he had to fight with himself not to let his eyes fall shut. There was a bitter taste in his mouth - something like ashes and like bile that had everything and absolutely nothing to do with the stench raising from the still-hot barrel of the gun.

Suddenly, Tim felt weary. He'd never wanted anything as much as he wanted to rip off his mask and curl up right then and there, curl up and let go, sleep, die, whichever came first.

He was tired.

Tired of wanting things he couldn't have, tired of how everything he cared about continuously slipped through his fingers. Tired. So tired. Tired of running after a man who seemed intent on pushing him as far away as possible. Tired of _being_ pushed away. Tired of... of everything, really. Of this conflict. Tired, but...

Tim teetered, like a man suspended on a line. He took a step forward. Jason was still frozen in the same position, arm stretched taut before him, smoking gun held in a steady grip, head tilted towards Tim, waiting for something the helmet made impossible to decipher.

Tim knew what Jason was trying to prove. _Do the sensible thing_, Jason was telling him without words. _I'm a killer, so hate me. We can never be, so run while you can. Run from this demon I've become. Run and be safe. Safe from _me.

And...

Tim took another step, the leather of Jason's jacket sliding against shoulderneckcheek, and raised his arms. The only visible patch of skin on the Red Hood was the thin sliver peeking between the turtle-neck and the crimson helmet, pale and beckoning like a knife's edge.

...andit made sense – it _all_ made sense. Jason _was_ a killer, and Tim _should_ begrudge him each and every life he took. But Jason was fooling himself, if he thought that Tim hadn't been aware of it from the beginning. If he thought that Tim's hands were so clean of blood, his feelings so fickle. He...

Tim's arms slipped around Jason's waist, hands sliding along his back. He pressed his forehead to the bare skin of Jason's neck_,_ feeling it burn, despite his own fever, burn and tremble, and curled against his chest, boneless and entirely defenceless in his grasp.

...he accepted Jason for who he was. Accepted the guilt, the anger, the pain. The blood, the demons of his past. He was willing to forgive them and give Jason a second chance, _if Jason would allow it_. Maybe it was awful, but-he wouldn't – _couldn't_ – stop loving Jason because his personal body count had increased of one.

_I choose you. _Tim was telling him, as blatant and wordless as Jason had been. _I know who you are, I know _what_ you are, and it doesn't scare me. So, stop running. Stop hiding. And just... have me?_

He moulded his body to Jason's own, chests moving together with each breath, heart beating a quick staccato of adrenaline and worry and pain. He _clung_ to him, tired and wordless but not beaten, and it wasn't exactly "I love you" or even "I care for you", except that it _was._

_I love you, Jay. I really do._

For several long moments, they held their breath. Then Jason pulled his arm back, a deliberate motion that brought the gun to his face, before a quick flick of his wrist sent it back in its holster.

Tim felt him shift, hands hovering, but he didn't dare hope until Jason's hand was in his hair, shiver-gentle, carding through the sweaty locks at the base of his nape. Tim's knees buckled, he couldn't help it. His knees buckled and the world swayed, and when Jason bent to hoist him up in his arms, Tim burrowed into him, he couldn't help _that_, either.

He tucked his face in the slope of Jason's shoulder, breathing him deep – leather and gunpowder and sweat, the musk of aftershave and the tang of smoke, and beneath it all, the memory of blood – and decided he'd have plenty of time later on to loathe himself for his weakness, for his desires, for loving someone and not caring how dirty his hands were, not if it meant giving him a second chance, not if meant being _together._

He smothered a half-sob against Jason's chest, and let himself be carried, looking as at home in Red Hood's arms, as if snuggling with his arch-nemesis was something he allowed on a regular basis.

With his eyes closed, he felt the light shift around them. The acrid smell of smoke gave way to salty ocean breeze. The low mumbling of the scared thugs was cut off by the metal clang of a door closing, and then: sirens, wailing in the distance, gaining volume as they came closer.

Jason shifted Tim's weight in his arms, easily slipped the grapple gun from the utility belt, and off they went, sailing through the air and landing flawlessly atop a nearby building.

Tim clung instinctively tighter when Jason lowered him gently on the ground. Wordlessly, Jason reached up around his own neck, grasped onto Tim's hands and tugged until Tim was forced to let go. Reluctantly he pulled away.

Jason's red helmet glinted oddly in the starlight, and Tim felt wounded deeper by that blank stare than he ought to be. He curled his fist around Jason's jacket and tugged once, invitingly.

"...let's go _home_, Jay."

Jason hesitated a moment, then pushed himself away, shaking his head.

"You were supposed to get _angry,_ Tim. To lash out. To shout. To... to... _fuck if I know." _He sounded as tired as Tim felt. "Arrest me. Cut my throat with another fuckin' batarang. _Something. _Not to..." his voice gained volume. It was angry, now. "Fuck it, Tim, you're supposed to _hate_ me! Not let me do this to _you!_ Can't you see I'm-"

Tim tried to grab at him and pull him back, but Jason lurched angrily to his feet, turned his back on him. The red helmet was still moving left and right, a child's angry negation. The leather of his gloves creaked as he pumped his fists.

"We split ways here. Don't..."

"Jay..."

"Don't _ever_ show your face again."

Tim's throat felt tight.

"_...Jay..."_

"If you do, I'll kill you. I..." Fingers flexing. Chest heaving. "Get it into your head that I _don't want you_." The creaking of leather. The shudder of a long breath. A hunch in those tense, straight shoulders. A quiver. "It's over."

He jumped off the roof then, vanishing through the darkness as if swallowed by it, but Tim never saw any of it. He was curled onto himself, rocking and heaving shuddering breaths, shivering and staring at his knees until his eyes went blurry.

He was still rocking, when Nightwing found him. Heaving, as the drugs were purged from his systems. Shivering as he was forced upstairs and into bed, where sleep failed to claim him for hours on end.

His eyes and chest, though, they never stopped _burning._

* * *

><p><strong>~*~<strong>**おわり****~*~**

* * *

><p>...I know you want to club me in the head right about now, but—I'll make it better? I think? <em>*hopeful note in her voice*<em>This was supposed to end on an angsty note, but NOT this angsty... *baffled at own writing*

On a side note, it should be only another couple of chapters (or rather one, and one split in two halves), before this story ends. I'm tempted by notion of a sequel, but I'm not quite sure, yet.


End file.
